


Live Free or Pie Hard

by KreweOfImp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (mis)adventures, Coitus Interruptus, Dean Loves Pie, Dean is a Little Shit, Domestic Discipline, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Sam Winchester is So Done, Sam is a Sucker, Spanking, Stern Castiel, Top Castiel, Top Michael, Way too much, brotherly shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-18 05:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13674885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KreweOfImp/pseuds/KreweOfImp
Summary: It’s not, Castiel maintains, that Sam is ill-behaved.   It’s more that sometimes he forgets to be well-behaved.





	1. Famous Last Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deadmockingbirds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deadmockingbirds/gifts).



> About a year and a half ago, I climbed off a plane and into the arms of a group of women I'd previously only known via the miracle of the internet. They're not "just" internet friends these days; they're my family. I love them all, but as any of them will happily inform you, I imprinted on [Deadmockingbirds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deadmockingbirds/pseuds/Deadmockingbirds) like a duckling, and she's yet to be rid of me. Right around that same time, I promised her a present of fic for her birthday.
> 
> It's...a little late. And by "a little late," I mean (at current count) approximately fifteen and a half months. It's so late that _another_ birthday has come and gone.
> 
> Oops?
> 
> It's still not quite finished, but thanks to a genius (read: hazardous to my own health) idea I had, Mock now gets to help keep me on task (read: threaten me into finishing The Thing) and suffice it to say that whether I rise to the occasion or not...she wins. Lest I end up like these poor, hapless Winchesters, look for this one to be completed within the next month(ish). 
> 
> Mock, my darling. But for the magical world of fanfic, there's next to no chance you and I would ever have crossed paths. I'm so damn grateful we did, and even more grateful that I get to call you my Person. Aloe you vera much, my darlin. Don't forget it. I hope you enjoy your present--you can't imagine how much fun I've been having in the creation of it.
> 
> As for the rest of you--hi there! I'm alive! And still writing! Just...very slowly. Yes, the two other WIPs are going to be finished. No, I can't tell you when. Hang in there and be patient with me. And heads' up that this work is a little new and different for me. I've never written either Sastiel or Dean/Michael before, but what Mock wants, Mock gets. I hope you enjoy the variety as much as I have.

_Castiel_

It’s not, Castiel maintains, that Sam is ill-behaved.   It’s more that sometimes he forgets to be _well-_ behaved.  Unlike his elder brother, Sam is no brat (Cas has little patience for brats; he leaves the brat-wrangling to his own elder brother, who has been managing Dean for well over a decade now).  What Sam _is,_ is susceptible to suggestion.  Most particularly where said bratty elder brother is concerned—which brings them to this evening.

The sleek Audi navigates the New York City streets effortlessly, weaving in and out of traffic under Castiel’s expert hands.   Despite the bustling fall evening beyond, the silence of the plush interior is broken only by the sounds of soft classical music spilling from the speakers—and the pointed huff of his extremely affronted husband.  “None of that,” Cas tells him firmly, “your offense would be somewhat more believable were it not for what happened at Samandriel’s birthday celebration last month.  Or Mother’s retirement party the month before that.  Or at Nordstrom’s earlier that same month.  Or—”

“Okay, I get it!” Sam interrupts, and a quick glance over confirms that he is suspended somewhere between irritable and chagrined, unsure whether to tip over into anger at having past misdeeds brought up or guilt over said misdeeds.  “But I still say the retirement party incident was Gabriel’s fault.”

“Be that as it may,” says Castiel, not bothering to argue since he’s well aware that his youngest brother is almost certain to be responsible (or at least a precipitant) for any mayhem that takes place in his general vicinity, “we are currently talking about you, and my expectations for you.  Carver Edlund has barely settled in as the new CEO of Angel Investment, but the murmurs are that he’s looking to make major changes, both in staffing and operations.  It is imperative that Michael and I make a good impression this evening—or, failing that, at least refrain from making a bad impression.  I expect you to be on your best behavior, and to keep a close eye on your brother.  If I so much as catch a whiff of the slightest hint that you have made any ill-considered decisions, if I even have reason to _suspect_ that you have failed to use your exceptionally astute, Stanford-educated brain to keep yourself in line, there will be consequences.  Have I made myself entirely clear?”

Chastened by this clear delineation of what’s at stake, Sam nods once, solemnly.  “Crystal, sir, but you know I don’t really have any control over Dean.”

“There’s my good boy,” Cas says, “and I think you have more influence over your brother than you know.   Do your best, Sam, that is all I am asking.”

“I will, Cas.  Not a whiff of trouble, I swear.”

“That,” Castiel opines, “sounds like famous last words if ever I heard any.  See that you prove me wrong.”

As it happens, he isn’t wrong, but then, he rarely is.

* * *

 

_Dean_

“Do you remember what happened after Samandriel’s birthday party?” Michael inquires in that too-casual tone Dean knows perfectly well to beware of.

“Yessir,” he responds, grimacing at the memories.  He could hardly forget; it took a solid week for him to be able to sit comfortably again and he’s not sure his right ass cheek will ever be the same, frankly (even if Michael says he’s being melodramatic).

“And following my mother’s retirement celebration?”

_“Yes,_ Michael.” He grits out, trying and failing to suppress the thread of resentment in his voice.  Yeah, he fucking remembers it, he was the one bare-assed, wailing and kicking over Michael’s broad thighs.

_“Tone,_ Dean.”

“Sorry, sir,” he responds mechanically, not particularly sorry but not willing to die on this particular hill.

“Dean,” Michael says, his voice softening infinitesimally, “your spirit and mischievousness are some of the things I love most about you.  I adore you exactly as you are, and I would never ask you to be someone that you are not.  I just—”

“Want me to be the on-my-best-behavior version of me tonight so I don’t fuck up your shot to get in good with the new Big Cheese,” Dean summarizes, having heard some variation of this spiel at least fifteen times in the last three and a half days.

“Precisely,” Michael says.

“Ten-four, Captain, all hands on deck and toeing the line,” Dean tells him earnestly.

“I’m fairly sure you’re mixing your metaphors, but I do appreciate the sentiment nevertheless.  In fact, I’ll sweeten the deal.  Not only will you avoid unpleasant consequences if you manage to be on your best behavior, we’ll stop off on the way home and pick up some of that limited-edition apple pie ice cream you’ve been drooling over.  How’s that sound?” 

Hell, yeah!  Dean’s been hankering for that stuff since he first saw the ad a couple weeks ago, but what with one thing and another, he hasn’t managed to get his hands on it yet.  Let’s face it, pie is pretty much the best thing on the planet, and ice cream’s not far behind.  Combining them is a stroke of genius Dean wishes he’d thought of himself.  “Fuck yeah, you’ve got yourself a deal,” he says, eyes widening in excitement.  Fuck off; apple pie ice cream is worth getting excited over.

“Excellent.” Michael’s lips twitch as he leans forward to minutely adjust Dean’s bowtie before stealing a quick kiss.  “I should find excuses to put you in tuxedos more often.  Fuck, but you’re gorgeous.”

“And all yours,” Dean tells his husband, tipping him a saucy wink.  Then he laces their fingers together and allows Michael to lead him down the red carpet (fucking seriously?  Who do these schmucks think they are?  It’s an _investment banking firm_ gala, not a goddamn movie premiere) and into the swanky hotel.


	2. Pie-Scented Doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had Sam known the full menu for this evening, the odds are good he would’ve chosen a different phrase to promise good behavior to Cas.

_Sam_

Had Sam known the full menu for this evening, the odds are good he would’ve chosen a different phrase to promise good behavior to Cas.  ‘Not a whiff of trouble,’ he promised, and that’s somewhat more ironic than anything Alanis Morissette came up with, because (as is so often the case when Dean and pie are concerned) it’s a whiff that starts the trouble.

“Do you smell that, Sammy?” Dean mutters, the abrupt widening and then narrowing of his eyes in interest finally replacing the baleful glower he’s been directing at the small plate of caviar and salmon blini tortes piled in front of him.  Dean, Sam has learned over the course of more than one too-fancy affair their respective husbands have dragged them to, is not much of a fan of high-end hors d’oeuvres.  Pigs in a blanket are awesome and tiny quiches are acceptable, but those are far too pedestrian for the kind of galas that Angel Investment throws each year.  Instead it’s foie gras dumplings and the aforementioned blini and a bunch of other stuff that Sam doesn’t mind but that mortally offends Dean by its very existence.  When Michael’s thinking clearly, he makes sure Dean eats a solid meal before these things, but clearly tonight he was too wound up over Carver Edlund’s first public appearance as Angel’s CEO to dot the is and cross the ts the way he normally would to maximize the chances of Dean actually getting through the evening without causing a disaster.

“No,” Sam lies instantly, “don’t smell a thing except maybe some more crawfish puffs.  You really ought to try them, dude, they’re great.”

“They taste like mud.”

“They’re not called mudbugs because they taste like mud!” Sam insists, barely managing to refrain from rolling his eyes.

“Anything that has both mud and bug in the name ain’t something I’ve got any interest in putting in my mouth.  And you’re a damn liar.  I know you smelled that.  Know what it is?”

“I don’t smell anything!”

“That, Sammy my boy,” Dean continues as if Sam didn’t speak, “is _pie.”_

“Nope.  Don’t smell it.  You’re imagining it.  Do you smell toast, too?  Maybe you’re having a stroke.”

“Not just pie,” Dean forges on ruthlessly, “that’s _blueberry_ pie.  You know the last time I had blueberry pie?”

“Are you having blurred vision?  Is one of your legs numb?” Sam demands, because honestly at this point a stroke might be less of a hazard to Dean’s health than whatever plan he’s currently hatching to get his hands on the blueberry pie that Sam is totally smelling, despite his protestations to the contrary.

“You don’t,” Dean carries on, undaunted by the fact that they’re having two totally different conversations, “because _I_ don’t even remember the last time I had blueberry pie.”

“I think maybe one side of your mouth is drooping.  Maybe we should get you to the hospital.”  Okay, a made-up stroke might’ve been a poor choice of distractions, but since he’s yet to find anything else that actually derails Dean once he’s made up his mind about some hare-brained scheme, it’s worth a shot?

“Nah,” Dean says, finally revealing that he’s heard every word out of Sam’s mouth, “I know exactly what the cure for what ails me is, and it’s behind _those_ doors.”  Sam’s eyes follow Dean’s finger as it stabs insistently at a set of double doors through which crisply-clad waitstaff come and go.

“Dean,” Sam says, finally abandoning the stroke gambit, recognizing the hint of desperation in his own voice, “if you just _wait_ an hour or so—maybe less—the pie’ll come to you.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” Dean demands, whipping around to face Sam, eyes blazing with the kind of intensity you’d expect in a discussion of last-ditch cancer treatment and not access to pie.  “What if it’s for some less nose-in-the-air, hoity-toity excuse for a party, Sam?  What about _that?”_

“Then you can go through the fuckin’ McDonald’s drive-through on the way home and get two apple pies for a dollar, Dean!” Sam snipes back hotly, then smiles disarmingly at the elderly woman who must’ve heard him curse and who is literally clutching her pearls in alarm.  “Good evening, ma’am, are you enjoying yourself?”

She doesn’t respond, simply draws herself up huffily and steams off.  Sam takes a minute to hope she’s nobody important before turning back to Dean, who’s looking at least as offended as she was.  If he had pearls, he’d be clutching them too.  “I _know,”_ Dean hisses, “you did not just try to convince me that a couple of crappy-but-passable McD’s apple pies are the same as individual blueberry pies baked by a fancy-pants pastry chef.”

“You don’t even know they’re individual-sized anyway,” Sam says nonsensically, as if that mattered.  “Now you’re just projecting.”

“They’re bound to be,” says Dean wisely, “they look fancier that way.  Look, are you in or are you out?”

“Out,” Sam says firmly, “way the hell out.  Nope.  You’ve dragged me into one too many of your shitty schemes and we get caught _every damn time._ No more pie-scented doom for me.  Cas is gonna eat me alive if we have another incident this soon after the last few.”

“Oh and you think Michael wouldn’t be on the warpath? It’s not like that, Sammy.  We’re not gonna cause any trouble.  We’ll just stroll in, not get in anybody’s way, snag a couple of those perfect, mini, fresh-from-the-oven blueberry pies, and be back in here before anyone even notices we were gone.”  Dean’s face has gone all distant and dreamy, just the thought of those pies elevating him to a state of near-bliss, and Sam finds himself stifling a grin.  His brother’s creeping up on 40, but he still turns into a five-year-old when confronted with pie.  He’s so busy feeling sentimental that he doesn’t notice at first when Dean’s expression sharpens, eyes narrowing a little in that particular way that denotes scheming.  _“Or,”_ he says, and Sam jumps a little at the abrupt change in tone, “I could just go without you, not have a look-out, accidentally knock into somebody, end up causing a chain reaction that makes the kitchen explode, and then you know who’s gonna get blamed for ‘not keeping your brother in line’?”

“Oh, that’s just—are you _blackmailing_ me?”

“Who got you in backstage to meet Sister Helen Whateverhernamewas when she came to speak last year?”

“Prejean, and she’s the foremost death penalty opposition advocate in the country, okay?”

“And that’s awesome, but did I even ask for that information before I made it happen for you?”

“Well, no, but—”

“And who took the fall for you three months ago when you dropped both of our phones in the Hudson and we were three hours late to meet Michael and Cas cause we couldn’t call a fucking Uber?”

“Well, you, but—”

“And who changed your diapers and mopped up your spit-up after the fire when Dad was sloshed?”

“Now, that’s not—”

“Who would throw himself in front of a train for you, no questions asked?”

“Cas,” Sam says promptly, mostly just for the glare Dean levels at him, “okay _fine,_ you can lay off the guilt trip, Grandma.  I’ll come.  But I swear to God, if we get caught—”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s all my fault.  We’re not gonna get caught, man.”

Well, he’s half right, anyway.

~*~

Even Sam has to admit the miniature (yes, they are in fact miniature) blueberry pies are fuckin’ incredible.  Some of the best pie Sam’s ever tasted—and as Garth, the sous chef they make friends with informs them, Dean was actually right, the pie is meant for another party entirely.  By the time they work their way through four or five of the adorably bite-sized things each (the chef in question slips them a couple of tiny pecan pie tartlets, too, after Dean offers to stand watch for him while he smokes a quick cigarette out the window), Dean is practically glowing with righteousness.  Sam figures if they make it through this one alive and unscathed—which is actually looking increasingly likely, surprisingly enough—he’s never gonna hear the end of it.  Dean was right about the pies being tiny, he was right about them being for a different party, he was right about them being incredible, and so far he’s right about this being a non-disastrous scheme, although Sam hesitates to even _think_ that, given how many times he’s managed to jinx himself.

“Dude, no, I’m gonna explode if I try to cram one more bite in,” Sam says, grinning as he waves off the overenthusiastic Garth, who’s just popped back up with a couple of tiny turtle cheesecakes.

“Me too, actually,” Dean says, practically giving Sam a heart attack when he admits defeat prior to making himself literally ill.

“Holy shit, is this you actually figuring out your limits?” He demands.  “Who are you and what have you done with my glutton of a brother?”

Dean snorts.  “Not likely.  Michael promised me a pint of that new limited-edition apple pie ice cream if I got through this evening without any trouble and I wanna save at least some room to try it.  But thanks, dude,” Dean says, fist bumping Garth.  “Nah, if you ask me, we all better get our asses back where we’re supposed to be before our luck runs out.”

Sam exhales a silent sigh of relief.  The sooner they’re back in the ballroom, the better.  Now that Dean’s gorged himself on pie and had an adventure, there’s actually a pretty decent chance that he’ll settle down and toe the line for the rest of the gala.  “Good call,” he agrees, trying to keep the relief out of his voice.  He must only half-succeed, because Dean tips him a knowing glance.  “Garth, it was a pleasure man.  Thanks for the hospitality.”

“Hey, not a problem, fellas,” Garth says, grinning at them.

The short trip back to the ballroom is uneventful, and practically before Sam knows it, they’re back under the elaborate chandeliers, mission accomplished with not so much as a stray blueberry to give them away.  “I gotta say, Dean,” Sam says, slapping him on the back, “that wasn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“Pretty sure that’s what Michael means when he talks about damning with faint praise,” Dean observes, “but I’ll take it, since that’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said about one of our me-led adventures.”

“I’d probably be nicer about them if they didn’t always end in disaster,” Sam points out reasonably, and Dean tips him a cocky grin.

“Not _always,_ little bro.  Here we are, after all, and—dude,” Dean interrupts himself suddenly, frowning downward and tipping a nod toward Sam’s feet, “what the hell?”

Sam starts, following Dean’s gaze down and discovering the issue in question immediately.  “…I lost my shoe?” He answers, half a statement and half a question.  And now that he’s thinking about it, yeah, his foot’s been feeling a little cold since—oh, _hell.  “I lost my shoe,”_ he groans with much greater certainty.

“How the hell do you lose a shoe and not know it?  Like how is that even possible?”

“Shut up, I have a weird arch on that foot, my shoes just—”

“Slip off, I know.  I’m the one who kept having to take on extra paper routes to buy you new shoes every time you came home without one.  But I thought you’d grown out of that like twenty years ago, man.”

“So did I,” says Sam, a little despairingly.  “But I know exactly where the damn thing is.”

“So go get it,” Dean says, his exasperation such a mirror of Sam’s (usually with Dean himself) that Sam has to stifle a snort.

“It’s in the kitchen!” Sam hisses.

“So?” Dean demands, “you know where you’re going, and—oh, Jesus Christ, fine, you need me to come hold your hand, princess?”

“Hey, I played look-out for you,” Sam reminds him, and Dean sighs, nodding once and rising, turning toward the kitchen and nearly jumping out of his own skin as he finds himself nose-to-nose with Michael.

“Hey, baby,” Michael says, smooth voice warm as he leans forward to nudge a single strand of Dean’s hair back into place, “how you holding up?”

“No complaints,” Dean says, flashing him a grin, “except that you know how I feel about these monkey suits.” 

“True, but you like what I do to you when we get home,” Michael counters, making Sam grimace.  Yeah, he knows on a logical level his brother and brother-in-law ain’t celibate, but knowing and being confronted with the evidence are two different things.  He’s busy enough being grossed out that it takes Dean to remind him that he’s got a critically important mission.  Behind his own back, Dean makes a quick shooing motion at Sam, urging him to go get his shoe while he’s still got the chance—and he’s right.  If Michael just turned up to check on Dean, Cas likely isn’t far behind, and he’s far too observant not to immediately spot the absent shoe and start interrogating Sam. 

“You ain’t wrong, babe,” Dean confirms, sliding a little closer and slipping his arms up and around Michael’s neck.

Sam doesn’t have to be told twice.  “Bathroom,” he says casually over his shoulder as he turns his back on Michael and Dean.  Dean leans forward to snag a kiss, effortlessly turning Michael just enough that he doesn’t have a clear line of sight on the double doors Sam’s aiming at, and Sam’s across the room and through the doors before he has time to second-guess himself.

He makes it back to the kitchen uneventfully, scowling down at his left foot every few steps.  This isn’t the first time its penchant for losing shoes has proven inconvenient, although it’s certainly the first time in at least a decade.  Coming around the corner back into the little alcove that served as their pie-eating lair, Sam is brought up short by the sight of an unfamiliar diminutive figure leaning against the wall, smoke lazily curling upward from the cigarette between two of his fingers.

“Oh!” Sam exclaims, startled, and the figure turns sharply, tensing up.

“Oh—hey,” the short man says.  He’s also clad in a tuxedo, maybe seven or eight inches shorter than Sam, with short curly brown hair, beard and mustache.  He’s pleasant-looking in a nondescript sort of way, and his face relaxes into a friendly smile as the tension goes out of his shoulders.  “Thought you might be somebody coming to look for me.”

“You’re not supposed to be here either, huh?” Sam says, relaxing as well.  If this guy’s also out of bounds, the chances of him ratting on Sam are pretty much nil.  Sam’s been in enough Mutually Assured Destruction scenarios to know that perfectly well.

“Nope,” the man says, “but I had to get away.  I hate these things,” he confides, tipping his head back in the direction of the ballroom Sam just escaped from.

“You’d get along great with my brother,” Sam grins, “he hates them too.”

“Not you, though, huh?”  The stranger asks, smiling back.

“I don’t mind them too much.  They’re important to my husband, and the crawfish puffs are to die for.  I’m Sam Winchester-Novak,” Sam says, smiling and extending a hand.

“You’ve got me on the crawfish puffs,” the man concedes.  “Pleasure to meet you, Sam, I’m Chuck.”

“I take it somebody dragged you to this gig, too?” Sam asks, glancing around and spotting his shoe lying forlornly on its side just under a large metal table.  “Your husband or wife work for AI?”

“Something like that,” Chuck sighs, taking a long drag off his cigarette and blowing the smoke out the cracked window above him as Sam leans over to snag his shoe, stuffing his foot back into it and tightening the laces practically to the point of pain.  He’s not gonna risk having to come back here _again,_ even if so far he’s been lucky. “Let’s just say I couldn’t get out of it.”

“I feel for you, man,” Sam says, smiling, “but as long as you snuck back here, if you poke your head around the corner and offer Garth a cigarette, he’ll bring you a couple of these individual-sized blueberry pies fresh from the oven.  Probably a couple pecan tartlets too, if you stand guard for him.”

“Now that,” Chuck says, brows lifting, “is some killer intel.  I love me some blueberry pie, and I know for a fact they’re not on the AI gala menu tonight. How do you come by all this inside info, Sam?”

“It’s a long story,” Sam says, rolling his eyes and grinning, “let’s just say nobody loves pie—or can recognize the smell of it—like my brother Dean.  Here, hold up a sec,” he adds, then pokes his own head around the corner, catching Garth’s eye and beckoning him over.  Garth comes willingly, and when Sam explains the situation, he’s only too happy to nip back into the main area and put together a plate of the tiny desserts.

Sam knows he really ought to get back posthaste, but it turns out Chuck is pretty killer company.  He clues Sam in to a diner over in the Bronx that he says has the best pie he’s ever tasted (information Sam immediately files away for ‘bribing of Dean’ purposes), although he assures Garth that the tiny blueberry pies are a close second, and it’s gotta be at least fifteen minutes before Sam glances down at his watch and starts.  “Aw, hell, I gotta get back,” he tells Chuck—Garth headed back to work five minutes ago—and Chuck glances at his own watch and sighs.

“Yeah, I’m not far behind you, Sam.  Thanks for the company and the pie-wrangling.  Definitely the highlight of an otherwise terminally dull evening.”

“Same here, man.  Good luck making it through the rest of the night.”

Chuck grins ruefully, slipping a finger into his collar and tugging at it as if to loosen the thing by sheer force of will.  “You too, Sam.”

Sam turns to go, but he’s only made it a few steps before Chuck calls after him.  “Hey, you said your husband works for AI, right?”

Sam pauses and glances over his shoulder, a little surprised.  “Yep.  Castiel Winchester-Novak—not to be confused with Michael Novak-Winchester, who’s Cas’s brother, not to mention my brother’s husband.”  Sam grins as Chuck’s brows furrow in confusion.  “It’s a long story, but I promise it’s just weird, not incestuous.”

Chuck snorts a laugh, shaking his head a little.  “You know, Sam, you’ll have to tell me that story sometime.  We should get together.  Do drinks.  You can bring your husband, I’ll bring my—Becky.”

“Sounds great, lemme give you my number,” Sam says, starting to dig out his phone, but Chuck just shakes his head.

“No need, I can find you.  I’ll be in touch.  G’night, Sam.”

“Night, Chuck,” Sam says, a little perplexed but in too much of a hurry at this point to stay and probe exactly what the hell Chuck means when he says “I can find you.”

He hurries back into the ballroom, slipping through the double doors and sidling back over to where Dean is craning his neck around the room.

“Jesus, dude,” Dean says, smacking him on the shoulder, “I thought you fell in.  Was trying to figure out what the hell I was gonna say when Cas came over and asked where you were.”

“Sorry, didn’t realize how long it’d been.”

“Yeah, yeah, just don’t lose your damn shoe next time,” Dean grumbles before Sam can fill him in on why it took so damn long.

“I can’t make any promises.”


	3. A Whiff of Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening is winding down, but Castiel isn't leaving until he's had a chance to meet Carver Edlund.

_Castiel_

The evening is winding down, people beginning to trickle (well, stagger; hazards of an extremely generous open bar) out the doors and into the chilly fall night.  Castiel would be just as happy to be one of them at this point, and a glance across the room confirms that Sam feels quite the same way.  He’s not hard to spot, towering at least a head above virtually everyone else in the room, and currently looking a little harried as a small and overenthusiastic looking blonde strokes his bicep, her expression unnervingly intent.  As if sensing the scrutiny, Sam swivels his head and almost immediately lands his gaze on Cas.  His eyes flare wider, and the meaning behind his intense stare ( _Help me, for God’s sake)_ can’t be mistaken. 

An intensely possessive man, ordinarily Cas would be ready to rip the little blonde’s arm off for daring to touch Sam, but something about the politely horrified look on Sam’s face somehow makes it more entertaining than infuriating.  Sending his husband an apologetic grimace that probably does little to hide his amusement, he taps his watch and mouths _“soon”_ at Sam.  Sam nods his understanding and then squares his shoulders as if psyching himself up for battle before turning his face back down toward his…admirer.

Shaking his head slightly, Castiel turns away, a small smile on his lips.  Michael took Dean home twenty minutes ago, presumably no longer able to resist the sight of his ass in his impeccably-fitted tuxedo.  But for the fact that he’s at least as likely to drag Sam out of places abruptly, overcome by the need to have him immediately, Cas would roll his eyes at the predictability of it all.   In any event, there was nothing stopping Michael from departing.  It would figure that just when Castiel stepped away to have a word with Hannah in Accounting, Michael managed to snag Carver Edlund himself, introducing himself and apparently having an excellent conversation about the Giants’ chances of making the playoffs this season.  Probably just as well Castiel wasn’t there, come to that; he finds football utterly pointless, irredeemably barbaric, and an appalling waste of time and taxpayer funds, an opinion he finds it nigh impossible to refrain from expressing when the topic arises.   Presumably, if the new CEO managed to carry on a fifteen-minute conversation with Michael about what overpaid men in spandex (not that that’s the part Cas objects to) are likely to do with the skin of a dead animal, his thinking more closely resembles Michael’s than Castiel’s.  

Cas, unfortunately, has utterly failed to manage any face-time with Mr. Edlund thus far, and he has no intention of leaving until he gets some.  It’s imperative that he and Michael distinguish themselves from the pack if major staffing changes are in the offing.  They need to establish themselves as indispensable assets to the company, and—

“You’re Castiel, yes?” A slightly familiar voice comes from behind Cas, who whirls around, looks down, and damn near has a coronary.  Not only did Carver Edlund seek him out personally, he knows Castiel’s name.  How…?

“I am, yes.  Castiel Winchester-Novak, Mr. Edlund, and it’s an honor to meet you at last.”  Cas extends a hand which Edlund takes readily, offering a firm shake. 

“Oh God, none of that.  Mr. Edlund was my father.  Please, call me Chuck.”

“Chuck, then,” Cas says, smiling.  Michael wasn’t wrong when he noted that the man doesn’t seem to stand on ceremony.  “Welcome to AI.  I’m sure you’ve heard this a thousand times already, but we really are excited to learn more about your vision for the firm.  The work you’ve done—”

Smiling a little, Chuck waves a hand, silencing Cas almost immediately.  It should be rude, but somehow something about his self-effacing, slightly sheepish expression makes it charming instead.  “Not that I don’t appreciate the vote of confidence, but it’s going on 12:30 and I’ve been having approximately this same conversation for hours.  I think that’s enough shop talk for tonight, don’t you?”

Cas laughs, feeling a little uneasy that he somehow managed to alienate the boss inside of thirty seconds, but far from seeming alienated, Chuck is smiling warmly at Cas.  “You’re the boss,” Cas says, chancing a little whimsy, and is pleased to hear the man chuckle appreciatively.

“I see a quick wit runs in the family,” he observes, and Cas smiles.

“Michael is indeed clever—”

“Mi—oh, yes, your brother, isn’t he?  He seems a nice fellow, but I really meant your husband.”

Castiel blinks in surprise.  How on earth has the CEO spent enough time with Sam one-on-one to get a glimpse of his husband’s legendary gift for banter (only trumped by Dean’s even more impressive gift)?  “Oh, you’ve met Sam?”

“I have, and a charming and personable man he is.  In fact—” Edlund glances behind Cas and snorts a laugh.  “I see he’s keeping Becky occupied.  I owe him an additional debt of gratitude in that case.”  There’s a brief pause as both Castiel and Chuck watch mutely as Becky tries to pat Sam’s cheek and misses entirely, likely due to a combination of drunkenness and height differential.  “In any case, I’ll need to pour her back into the limo at some point in the near future and take her home, but I did want to stop by, say hello, and see whether you and Sam might like to have dinner next week?  I told him I’d see to the arrangements.”

Cas goggles at him in astonishment.  Just exactly what in the hell is going on here?  Cas has barely exchanged two words with the man and somehow Edlund wants to take him and Sam out for dinner?  It’s glaringly evident that Castiel is missing something here, and while it appears to be something good, Cas does not like to miss things.  He realizes suddenly that Chuck has been looking expectantly at him for just shy of an awkward amount of time and hastily responds.  “We’d love to.  And—wait,” Cas says, as something suddenly clicks.  “Did you say you owe Sam an _additional_ debt of gratitude?  I sense a story.”  He makes his voice warm and welcoming despite the sneaking sensation that he’s about to be treated to information that will not bode well for Sam’s ability to sit comfortably at said dinner, regardless of how positive the outcome.

“You’re not wrong,” Edlund says, chuckling.  “I may have ducked out earlier, snuck off to the kitchens for a smoke—terrible habit, I know—and ran into Sam, who also needed a break from the party.”

“In the kitchens,” Cas says, schooling his voice to a mildness far disproportionate to what he is feeling.  “You met Sam—in the _kitchens.”_ He wants to make absolutely certain that he’s getting this right, because he distinctly remembers an extremely explicit conversation mere hours ago laying out his expectations for Sam.  Expectations which did not involve sneaking away into unauthorized spaces in which he could potentially have interfered with the staff, caused damage, or, say, _run into the damn CEO._

Edlund, entirely oblivious to the ire rapidly building in Cas, nods blithely.  “He’s great company, Castiel—and I’m not the only one who thought so.”  He chuckles again, and then, seeing Cas’s questioning face, waves a hand dismissively.  “He’d already made friends with one of the chefs.  Nice fellow named Garth, who was happy to provide a number of bite-sized desserts that, between you and me, were way more appetizing than what we had on the menu.”

Through the haze of red that is threatening to take over Castiel’s vision, a theory is forming.  And really, he only needs one small piece of information to confirm or deny it.  “I don’t suppose any of those bite-sized desserts were some form of pie, were they?”

“Good guess,” Chuck says with a grin.  “Blueberry.  It was excellent, I asked Garth for the recipe.  If you head back there now, I’d bet they’re just gathering up leftovers from the other party and might have some to offer you.”

“Oh—no, that’s okay, I’m afraid I overdid it on the crawfish puffs, I couldn’t eat another bite.  But—tell me, you _only_ met Sam back there?  No, uh, anyone else?  Perhaps his brother?”

“No,” Edlund says, looking slightly puzzled, “only Sam, although he did mention how much his brother dislikes these events.”

“Just curious,” Cas says easily, giving Chuck a smile.  “They tend to be joined at the hip at these functions.”

“You know,” Chuck said, “over dinner, you’ll have to explain to me how two sets of brothers came to be married to each other.”

Castiel smiles.  It’s a story he rather enjoys telling, but then, he generally jumps on any opportunity to inform the world that the beautiful, brilliant, thoughtful, kind, _in deep fucking trouble_ Sam is all his.  “We’d love to.”

“At any rate, I just wanted to stop off and introduce myself, tell you how much I enjoyed meeting Sam, and set up dinner—is Wednesday good?  I’ll have to have my secretary double check but I’m pretty sure it’s an early night.”

“Wednesday should be just fine.  Sam and I will look forward to it, Mr.—sorry, Chuck.”

Chuck grins at him and sketches a casual salute.  “My secretary will call you with the arrangements on Monday.  But now, I think you should probably go rescue your husband,” he says, lips twitching as he tilts his head toward where Becky has now draped herself around Sam’s waist and is swaying back and forth, apparently of the opinion that they’re dancing, despite the fact that Sam’s body is at least twice as rigid as a corpse in mid-rigor mortis.   Cas chokes on a laugh, his empathy for his husband somewhat dimmed by the knowledge that all his warnings and imprecations against misbehavior fell on deaf ears.  “I’m going to have the driver bring the limo around before I start wrangling Becky,” Chuck says, sighing slightly.  “Perhaps I’ll—leave her home on Wednesday, for Sam’s sake.”

“That might be wise,” Cas says mildly, then offers out a hand.  “A pleasure, Chuck.”

“And you, Castiel,” Chuck says, returning the handshake firmly before hurrying off, digging a phone out of his pocket as he goes.

Cas damn near levitates across the room, sliding his fingers around Sam’s bicep and squeezing lightly—not near hard enough to clue Sam into just how much trouble he’s in.  Sam turns his head, an expression of such pitiful relief coming over his features that Cas is hard pressed not to either laugh or kiss him—and that’s when it occurs to him that this might actually be an excellent diversion for Becky, who has just noticed Cas and is glaring up at him as if to indicate that he should back off of her territory.  Ha; how little she knows.

Using the grip on Sam’s arm, Cas tugs firmly.  Sam stumbles sideways, which serves the dual purpose of dislodging Becky and swinging him around, allowing Cas to get a hand on Sam’s other bicep with which to reel the taller man in.  He doesn’t half-ass it, diving into a kiss deep enough to send Sam’s head spinning and steal his breath—and thoroughly enjoying it himself.

Backing off just enough to cast a sidelong glance at Becky.  “Sam, you haven’t introduced me to your…friend, but I’m afraid it’ll have to wait.  I’ve already asked the valet to bring the car around.  I’m sorry, miss, my husband and I must be going.”

Becky looks horrified to discover that the husband Cas imagines Sam already told her about at least twelve times is both real and here.  Cas gets it; Sam is a catch, but he can’t say he has any real sympathy for the mousy little thing.  If she weren’t…married to? Seeing?  Whatever; somehow entwined with the new CEO, Cas might be murmuring a few choice threats in her direction, ensuring she never lays hands on what doesn’t belong to her again, but for now he lets it slide.  At any rate, Sam is gazing at him in utmost adoration, still starry-eyed both from the kiss and from the rescue, and he goes all too easily when Cas slides a hand down his arm to entwine their fingers and pulls him along.

They make it out of the ballroom before Sam leans over and mutters “My hero.  But you couldn’t have staged that rescue before she decided that we were engaged?”

Cas blinks.  “Exactly…how drunk was she?”

“Drunk, but not _that_ drunk.  I think she’s just…uh.  That inappropriate.” 

“Mmmm,” Cas hums noncommittally, “that’s a shame, inappropriate behavior at an event like this.  She must be embarrassing whoever she’s here with.  Luckily, not _my_ husband.  He was a credit to my name for the entire evening; perfectly behaved.”

There’s just enough ambiguity in his tone to leave Sam wondering whether Cas is honestly praising him or is backhandedly reproaching him, giving him an opportunity to step in and explain himself.  Sure enough, out of the corner of his eye, Cas can already see Sam start to squirm.  For all his gifts, the man is about as subtle as the Moose their neighbor Crowley always calls him.

“Thanks, babe,” Sam responds after a pause that is just slightly too long, “I…think the evening turned out pretty great.”

For all his irritation, Cas has to admire Sam’s neat dodge.  He’s right, the evening _did_ turn out okay, but that’s despite his behavior and not as a result of it.

Okay, fine, part of it is due to his behavior, and Cas will make sure to thank Sam sincerely for making such a good impression on Chuck—just as soon as he’s paid for the ill-considered decisions that led him to encounter the man in the first place.  Frankly, it’s a minor miracle that things _did_ turn out well, given how many misadventures the brothers Winchester have gotten into, just in the last several months (figuring in the last several years, they probably break some manner of embarrassing-disaster world record).

“Mmmm, I agree,” Cas says noncommittally, deciding to up the ante and see how long it takes to get Sam to break, “and you know, the funniest thing happened just before we left.  Mr. Edlund himself sought me out and said he wanted to take you and I to dinner this week.  Isn’t that funny?  Our reputations must precede us.” 

Castiel is a very safe driver.  He’s never had an accident, and he has no intention of ruining that particular streak, but even so, he can’t resist watching Sam out of the corner of his eye.  There’s a brief pause as the words sink in and then—Cas can tell the exact second that he manages to put two and two together—Sam stiffens sharply before relaxing again, apparently with great effort.  His face pales at least three shades, and for the first time since dressing early this evening, he seems to find his bowtie and collar stifling, scrabbling to untie the first and unbutton the second.  Castiel greatly enjoys the display.

He’s been called a sadist a time or two, often by the man seated next to him at present.

It’s probably a fair assessment.

“That’s—that’s great,” Sam says, his voice starting what has to be at least an octave and a half above his natural baritone, cracking, and then settling back into its normal pitch. “I think I saw him around.  Little dude?  Curly hair?  Pretty nondescript?”  There’s a hint of desperation in his voice, as if he’s hanging onto one last hope that maybe this is a coincidence.

“That’s the one,” Cas agrees cheerfully, “he’s much more personable than I expected.  Even asked me to call him Chuck, if you’ll believe it.”

Sam’s responds with the most forced laugh Cas has heard since Donald Trump pretended to be amused by President Obama’s ribbing at the White House Correspondent’s Dinner a year or two ago.  “Wow, he asked, uh—that’s—hey, are we almost home?  I’m pretty tired.  Long night.”

“I imagine so,” Cas says mellowly, finally convinced that Sam has no intention of fessing up and throwing himself on Castiel’s mercy—not that Cas is feeling particularly merciful, but his great appreciation for honesty and accountability would likely have compelled him to abbreviate what Sam’s got coming to him at least somewhat, “we’ll be home within ten minutes, and I’m certain you will sleep like a baby, as you generally do after I roast you alive.”

“Yeah, I— _oh.”_ Sam breathes, shoulders drooping a little in mingled defeat and relief.  Cas has to hide a smile—despite all current evidence to the contrary, Sam _despises_ lying to him, and is inevitably at least as relieved as he is distressed when his ill behavior comes to light.  Perhaps it’s just that he knows by now (or damn well should) that Cas can sniff out misbehavior with somewhat more acuity than a bloodhound can sniff out…whatever the hell it is that bloodhounds sniff.  Perhaps it’s that, at heart, Sam is an honest man, a man of integrity (something that didn’t always serve him well as a lawyer, frankly, before he quit his high-powered firm to take a job with The Innocence Project—but certainly not a thing that Cas would ever change about his beloved).  “So.  Uh.  Yeah.  That happened.”

“That happened,” Cas echoes, half mocking and half (reasonably gentle) chiding.  “Care to give me the details or shall we just fast-forward to the lecture?”

“I—snuck off into the kitchens during the dinner and ran into Chu—well, Mr. Edlund, I guess.  We chatted for a while, we ate some dessert, and then I came back,” Sam abbreviates, and Cas is at least 362% certain that a few important details are missing from this summary (namely, where Dean fits in, because there isn’t a chance in heaven and hell that this was not somehow, in some way, Dean’s fault), but he lets them slide for the moment.  A fuller accounting of events tends to come to light when Sam is pleading for mercy at the back of his own solid wooden hairbrush.  Castiel can wait; he is, after all, a patient man.

“I don’t suppose you have any plans on telling me exactly _why,_ after the extremely clear discussion we had prior to the gala, you opted to sneak away into a restricted area, in which you could easily have gotten injured, disturbed the staff, or encountered someone less amenable to your time AWOL than Chuck luckily was?”

“It—I was—bored,” Sam says, and Cas internally rolls his eyes hard enough that it’s reasonably surprising they don’t plop right out of his head and into Sam’s lap.

“Is there anything else I ought to know?  Any other misbehavior that might come to light later and earn you at least three times as much trouble as it will now?”

“No, there’s—oh!  Yeah, there was some stodgy looking old lady who heard me say “fuck” and stalked off looking pissed?  I think that’s everything.”

It takes every ounce of self-control Castiel has built up over the last three and a half decades not to absolutely lose it at the mental picture combined with the dutiful recitation.  It wouldn’t project the right air of sternness.  Nevertheless, he finds himself more than a little charmed that this even registered as worthy of mention to Sam.

“Mmm.  Wearing too much fur and pearls?  Looks like she ate a particularly sour lemon at all times?”

“That’s the one,” Sam confirms, sounding worried.

“Believe me, I’m far less concerned about the delicate sensibilities of Zachariah’s wife than I am about your little field trip,” Cas notes, and Sam exhales slightly, looking relieved.  Zachariah has never gotten along especially well with Castiel or Michael.   He’s pompous, curmudgeonly, and all around thoroughly dislikeable—not to mention being a bit of a slacker, content to rest on the laurels of his underlings (which neither Castiel nor Michael is any longer, thankfully).  “That scarcely counts as misbehavior in my book, although I would caution you against further exclamations of that sort in her presence, lest her head literally explode from the scandal and ruin your lovely tuxedo.”

Sam snorts a surprised laugh as Cas’s lips twitch slightly, but a moment later, his face smooths back into solemnity in answer to Cas’s corresponding shift back into sternness.  “But about the rest of it…”


	4. Love, Honor, and Obey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas is a man of routine, and this extends to the times in which Sam has earned himself (or, just as likely, Dean has earned him) a trip over his husband’s muscled thighs.

_Sam_

By the time they make it home, Sam is thoroughly lectured—but not dumb enough to think that there won’t be a hell of a lot more lecturing, with him in a dramatically less comfortable position than seated in the plush seats of Cas’s Audi.  The trip was irritatingly fast and far more painless than the rest of Sam’s evening promises to be.  Where’s that famous New York City traffic when you need it?

Despite the fact that his ass is in one piece and entirely devoid of pain (for now), he’s still done a fair amount of squirming in his seat.  Cas has this way of reframing things such that you end up profoundly ashamed of not only every misdeed you’ve ever committed, but also all of the ones you’ve ever considered.  If it were up to Sam, he’d never have to suffer through one of those soul-piercing lectures again, but with Dean as his brother, the chance of avoiding them is somewhat south of slim and only slightly north of none.

“Very well,” Cas says as the Audi pulls smoothly into the garage of their high rise, cutting through Sam’s annoyed musings, “you know the drill.  Inside, strip, and in your corner.  I’ll fetch you when I’m ready for you.”  Sam stifles a sigh—at this point, any outward signs of rebellion will only get added to his tab, which is already going to cost him dearly.  No need to antagonize the strict disciplinarian version of his husband.

Cas is a man of routine, and this extends to the times in which Sam has earned himself (or, just as likely, Dean has earned him) a trip over his husband’s muscled thighs.  When pressed about it—or in response to ill-advised and rapidly stifled complaints, Cas never minds explaining his rationale.  _“Modesty is for fully grown men, not those who see fit to misbehave like little boys.  Your backside gives up its right to any privacy when you choose to act out, and as for the rest of you—I simply like looking at you.  As I’m generously donating my time to ensure that you maintain appropriate standards of behavior, the least you can do is give me something pretty to look at while I turn that magnificent bottom red.”_ And then there’s the corner: _“You are a thoughtful man, Sam.  It’s one of the things I cherish most about you.  It would be unkind not to provide you with an opportunity to thoroughly consider your crimes and how much you will endeavor not to repeat them in future.”_ Sam generally protests that he has plenty of time to ponder exactly that when Cas is applying any number of preferred implements to the seat of his nonexistent pants, but that’s yet to sway his husband.

So; naked and in “his” corner it is, a long-standing tradition that’s led Sam to an intimate familiarity with the particular corner Cas is referring to.  The corner that resides in Castiel’s office, nearest the solid straight-back, armless chair that looks rather out of place in the otherwise impeccably coordinated decor.  The corner that has a carefully embroidered and framed version of both Castiel and Sam’s self-written wedding vows hanging up in it.  If one were to look closely, they might conclude that the embroiderer in question had oddly switched to a different, thicker embroidery floss for a single word in only Sam’s vows.  The word?  “Obey.”  Knowing how much it would mean to Cas, Sam took a leaf from the traditional wedding vows of yore that women had once recited, and eloquently promised to obey his husband and trust his guidance.  Some few months later, in the aftermath of yet another of Dean’s harebrained and ill-fated schemes that resulted in a shocking amount of damage to nearly the entire stock of an adorable and charming (if somewhat kitschy) embroidery and knitting shop, Cas felt that the strapping he applied was not quite sufficient a punishment.  Sam figured he was going to get lines (wouldn’t have been the first time Cas assigned him ridiculously long and complex lines to write a horrifying number of times, in an attempt to get some message or another to sink in), but no, this time Castiel had something more diabolical in mind.

While Castiel and Michael had immediately promised the proprietor that they would cover all of the lost stock, Castiel had also informed Sam that he would be spending his weekends for the next month helping out—without pay—in the store, assisting them in cleaning up and then doing whatever odd jobs and heavy lifting they might need.  Michael had not assigned Dean any such consequence, and while Sam felt that this was patently unfair, he had to concede that Michael’s point (Dean was just as likely to cause another disaster as to make up for this latest catastrophe) was a valid one.  Instead, Dean found himself facing two weeks of nightly maintenance spankings—Sam wasn’t likely to forget this, as Dean had bemoaned it endlessly, swearing that by the time he’d paid his due, his entire ass would’ve simply fallen off.

Judging by how well he continued to fill out his assorted jeans and slacks, this worry had been in vain, but Dean did tend toward the melodramatic at times.

In any event, before setting him loose on his volunteer work, Castiel had suggested (in the tone of voice that made it clear that it was not even slightly a suggestion) that Sam might also take this opportunity to learn to embroider.  Dutifully, Sam had taken the cheerfully-given lessons of the sweet elderly proprietor, somehow managing to learn how to manipulate the ridiculously small needles with his admittedly huge paws.  Following another not-suggestion suggestion from Cas, Sam had set to work embroidering both of their vows (and he had never before regretted how verbose his own vows had been until he was hunched over an embroidery hoop, painstakingly putting in one tiny stitch after another). 

Three guesses whose idea it had been to embolden one choice word (his name started with a C and rhymed with Sadistic-and-Diabolical-tiel).

It’s this corner and this carefully and slightly clumsily embroidered piece that Sam trudges toward after climbing off the elevator into their 53rd floor home.  Stepping into Castiel’s office, Sam slips his right shoe off and then crouches to undo the double knot that managed to keep his traitorous left shoe where it belonged for the latter half of the evening—not that it did him any good by that point.  Muttering a few choice curses in the direction of the offending shoe, Sam briefly considers flinging it right _through_ the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him.  The only thing stopping him is the knowledge that the glass is damn near impossible to break (Castiel fucks with the same single-minded intensity with which he does everything else—spanking included, more’s the pity—and he’s had Sam plastered against this very glass wall more than once, able to do nothing but brace himself against Cas’s delicious, teeth-rattling thrusts.  Not something Castiel would do if the solidity and strength of the glass were even remotely in question; the one thing he would never dream of taking risks with is Sam’s life or safety).  Still, he vows silently to throw the accursed shoe down the incinerator chute later, choosing to blame it rather than the blonde-haired, green-eyed pie-loving asshole who’s really at fault.  It’s not like he can chuck Dean down the incinerator, although he’s had some pretty vivid fantasies about doing just that a time or two, usually in circumstances much like these.

Shoes dispensed with, Sam tugs his socks off, wriggling his toes in the plush carpeting they’re so intimately familiar with.  About a year ago, Cas had replaced the perfectly sufficient carpet in here with an extra plush variety, jovially remarking that if he was going to call Sam on the carpet, it might as well be really _excellent_ carpet (“you know nobody actually says ‘called on the carpet’ anymore, right?” Sam had snarked, a good deal less flattered than was probably wise at Castiel’s solicitousness toward the comfort of his toes.  Sure enough, said snark had ended badly for him, as it tended to). 

Shrugging off his tuxedo jacket, Sam carefully sets it aside for dry cleaning.  His no longer terribly crisp (and slightly lipstick smeared; ewww, Becky) white shirt follows it, and his pants come after.  Just as his fingers slide into the waistband of his boxer briefs, the low hum of the heat kicks on, and Sam knows immediately that Cas kicked it up a few degrees in this room alone, ensuring that the rest of Sam won’t freeze while Cas warms up only a certain part of his anatomy.  The hint of warmth that blossoms in Sam’s chest has more to do with this realization than the heat itself.  He knows better than to waste too much time feeling schmoopy, lest the man he’s feeling schmoopy about come in early, find him anywhere but in his corner, and take some intensely non-schmoopy action.  Doffing his briefs, Sam heads to the corner he still stubbornly refuses to think of as “his” and settles in, clasping his hands behind himself, planting his feet shoulder-width apart, and standing straight but relaxed.  It’s a position designed to keep him just focused enough to remember that he’s there for a purpose and is under orders, but not so taxing that he’ll end up in real discomfort if left for an extended period of time.  As always, Castiel thinks of everything.

Generally, this is the time in which Sam is able to get his head right for his upcoming comeuppance (and damn Cas twice for coming up with that particularly punny phrasing that Sam has never been able to forget), making him, if not exactly _eager_ for his punishment, at least _accepting_ of it.

Not tonight, apparently.  Nope, tonight, Sam just keeps getting stuck on two pieces of information, only one of which Cas is privy to; first (and known only to Sam), the whole goddamn thing is, _yet again,_ Dean’s fault.  And second—and this is what’s really sticking in Sam’s craw—it didn’t end in disaster!  Quite the opposite, in fact!  Cas and Michael had been going on and on (to the degree that it had gotten pretty fucking tiresome, to be perfectly honest) about how important it was for them to make a good impression on the new CEO—on _Chuck_ —to distinguish themselves from the legions of boring investment bankers.  And now, when Sam had singlehandedly achieved what neither of them had done on their own, he was gonna get his ass roasted for it?  It was so _unfair._

If he thought it’d save him, Sam might actually be inclined to rat on Dean, despite their very firm code of silence (never mind that the code in question only ever seems to serve to protect Dean, since Sam doesn’t go around causing trouble himself, thankyouverymuch), but it wouldn’t.  After the thousand or so times Cas has ordered him not to get sucked into Dean’s schemes, the fact that it was yet another one of those is unlikely to protect him.  Quite the contrary, he’s just as likely to find himself on the receiving end of Dean’s righteous fury—which has the tendency to be nearly indistinguishable, in effect, from Cas’s.  No, regardless of how the injustice of it rankles at him, there’s nothing to be gained and plenty to be lost from giving Dean up.  But still.  _Still._ It’s not _fair._

 _None_ of it is fair.  Not the part where it was another one of Dean’s harebrained ideas and Sam’s the one taking the fall for it, and not the part where he’s about to go ass up for going off-book, even though it actually resulted in the precise outcome that Cas and Michael had been hoping for.  Sam is so busy brooding grouchily about said unfairness that he doesn’t even hear Cas come into the room—a significant irregularity, particularly when he’s waiting for a punishment and is especially tuned in to his disciplinarian.

“I can hear you scowling from all the way across the house,” his husband’s voice rumbles from near the doorway, and Sam jerks, startling enough to break position.  He knows well enough to move right back into the expected position, but before he can settle himself again, the voice emerges once more.  “None of that, clearly your corner time is failing to produce its intended result this evening, so we’ll dispense with it.  You may come forward, Sam.”

Sam’s been known to tease Cas about his peculiar formalities of speech and manner—something Cas accepts with good humor— but he’s never managed to talk him out of that particular turn of phrase.  It rankles Sam; ‘you may come forward,’ as if he’s being summoned to the front of a classroom to reap the results of naughtiness in front of twenty-five sets of watching eyes.  Secretly, Sam harbors the suspicion that this may be exactly why Cas employs it.  His husband’s got a little bit of a schoolboy fetish, whether or not he admits it, and Sam’s pretty sure Cas also enjoys the flush that edge of humiliation always brings forth on Sam’s cheeks (the upper ones; Cas sees to the lower ones in short enough order thereafter). 

In any event, irksome phrasing or not, Sam does indeed come forward, turning away from the corner to find Cas, formalwear dispensed with in favor of lounge pants and a t-shirt, settling himself not onto the straight-backed chair, but onto the broad couch that dominates the office’s plush sitting area.  Sam blinks, a little surprised, and Cas smiles slightly.  “Come sit with me, Sam.  Let’s talk.”  He extends an arm out to one side, wordlessly inviting Sam to climb onto the couch and curl into his side.

Annoyed though he may be, it never even occurs to Sam to refuse—and not because he fears reprisal.  It warms him deep down that Castiel not only sensed that he was having a hard time getting his head right for this particular punishment, but also clearly intends to make sure that they work through it before said punishment proceeds.  Even when he’s causing considerable pain, Cas always takes care of Sam.

Sam snuggles in against Cas willingly, allow himself to be gathered in close, releasing a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding as Cas’s lips graze his forehead.  “You are feeling hard done by,” Cas states rather than asks, and Sam nods just a little.  “Because,” Cas goes on, “things did not end disastrously.  Quite the contrary, you accomplished singlehandedly what Michael and I otherwise failed to; you distinguished us from the pack.  Carver Edlund can not only tie our names to our faces, he’s apparently decided that he likes us (well; you) enough to set aside time to spend with us.  Frankly, what you accomplished is wildly better than the most I had thought to hope for, and you did it entirely by virtue of your own charm and warmth.  Although you pursued a risky course of action, that risk paid off generously, and to be punished as if it had resulted in disaster rather than triumph feels profoundly unfair.  Do I have the right of it?”

If Sam could’ve crafted an eloquent and passionate speech in which he explained exactly what was bothering him (well, half of what was bothering him, anyway), it probably would’ve sounded just about exactly like that, but he’d been way too irritated to collect his thoughts so neatly.  Thankfully, he has a perceptive and empathetic husband (and possibly a slightly psychic one as well, it’s not the first time he’s seemed to read Sam’s mind wholesale). 

“Yeah, exactly,” Sam confirms.  “And I know you told me not to go out of bounds or to have any adventures or whatever, but—it’s just…it’s just not fair,” he finishes lamely, thinking he probably should’ve just left it at a simple ‘yes.’

“Now, as you’re certain that I can see it from your perspective, I will ask you to see it from mine.  Yes, your actions resulted in triumph and not disaster.  You were charming and personable (which ought to surprise no one, and certainly doesn’t surprise me), but Sam, things could just as easily have gone poorly.  You know this, because you’ve been caught up in enough of Dean’s schemes to see how quickly any adventure can turn into a misadventure.  You might have been just as charming and personable, and still ended up causing a kitchen fire, or encountering Zachariah instead of Chuck—who would’ve been only too delighted to ensure that everyone thought you had been dressing as a waiter and pickpocketing old ladies or something equally ridiculous—or gotten badly burned by a kitchen spill of some kind.  Had you run into someone less amenable than whatever chef you and Chuck befriended, you might have had security called on you, been ejected from the building altogether, or even been arrested.  Unlikely, perhaps, but not impossible. 

“The fact that none of these things happened has a great deal more to do with luck than with the choices that you made—and just as it would be unfair of me to punish you for having ill luck if you haven’t also made poor choices,” Sam takes a moment to remember at least a few times when things have gone horribly wrong and, despite being initially inclined to make Sam’s ass glow, after sorting through what actually happened (and determining that it really was down to terrible luck rather than misbehavior), Cas has in the end declined to punish Sam, recognizing that it wasn’t any of his choices that resulted in disaster.  Okay, touché, Sam can see where he’s going with this and it does kinda make sense, “it would likewise be inconsistent for me _not_ to punish you for making ill-considered decisions, even if you had _good_ luck on your side.”

Sam takes a minute to sort through this, painstakingly stepping from one side of Cas’s logic to the other, prodding internally at it, testing for inconsistencies.  As usual, there aren’t any, and ultimately he has to admit that there’s a good deal of sense in what Castiel is saying.  Yeah, things ended well, but there’s no denying how lucky Sam got.  He takes a deep breath, sighs, and then nods into Cas’s neck, acknowledging his understanding.  “I still can’t say I like it, but yeah, okay, I get it, Sir.”

“I can’t say I particularly like it either, but I owe you consistency and much though you may not feel like it at the moment, you _need_ consistency.  That being said, you and I will have to figure out some way to celebrate your victory in the next several days, after you have paid your debt.  Are we on the same page, Sam?”

It’s not that Cas wouldn’t ever punish him if he and Sam _aren’t_ on the same page, it’s just that he prefers not to.  Sam isn’t like Dean; Dean would argue all the way to the gallows, even if he’d committed the murder that condemned him on national television.  Getting on the same page with him is damn near impossible, because he’s probably admitted he deserved to be punished like, twice in his entire life.  Michael doesn’t worry much about getting Dean on the same page.  He just explains why Dean is being punished and then gets on with it.  Sam, though—Sam needs to really understand and get right with it in advance, in order to reap the maximum benefit (well, that’s what Cas calls it; Sam doesn’t feel particularly benefitted) out of the consequences.  Sam sighs once more and then nods again.  “Yes, Sir, we are.”

“Very good,” Cas says smoothly, and just like that, the gentle, thoughtful, solicitous Cas is gone, and uppercase **_CASTIEL,_** disciplinarian and all-around badass has taken his place.  Somehow, he’s not entirely certain how, the tender arms that were wrapped around him become an iron grip on one wrist and a firmly guiding hand on his back, and despite the fact that Cas is four inches shorter than Sam, he suddenly finds himself neatly and smoothly upended, spread out naked over his husband’s lap with his backside uppermost.  While Cas generally delivers punishments in his straight-backed chair, he’s certainly capable of improvising, and apparently the couch will do for this time.  “Then we’d best get on with it.  It’s already quite late and I’ve got meetings all day tomorrow.”

“Yes, Sir,” Sam says, taking a deep breath and letting it out, bracing himself insofar as it’s possible.

Cas sets his left hand on Sam’s lower back, a firm and warm pressure that serves more to keep him grounded than to restrain him, although it’s more than strong enough to hold him steady when the squirming inevitably starts.  With that hand, the ritual leading up to a spanking is sorted, and Cas wastes no time in moving on to the spanking itself.  His hand begins to fall steadily, the rhythm unhurried.  ‘Getting on with it’ or no, Castiel has never in his life rushed through a punishment, and Sam wouldn’t expect him to start now.

The warm-up is, as Cas has noted more than once, a kindness, albeit one he rarely dispenses with.  It certainly doesn’t count toward the actual punishment Sam has coming to him.  The actual punishment tends to include the use of implements rather less forgiving (and that is saying something) than the palm of Castiel’s rock-hard hand.

Just as this thought occurs, Cas removes his hand from Sam’s lower back just long enough to lean slightly, setting Sam’s own wooden hard-backed hairbrush down beside where his cheek is now pillowed against one of the couch’s soft cushions.  God only knows where he was storing the thing; he does seem to have an uncanny ability to produce it practically out of thin air. “Hold that for me, would you, Sam?” Cas says, and although his voice is cordial, it’s not a request.  Grimacing slightly—he hates that thing, even briefly going so far as to consider cutting his hair to negate the need for a true hairbrush, but in the end his vanity (and luxurious locks) won out, and so the hairbrush stays.  Cas probably wouldn’t have gotten rid of it, anyway, hair or no—Sam’s hand reaches up from the floor to close around the handle of the hairbrush, feeling its solidity and heft, just as Cas means him to.  He doesn’t bother to offer a verbal response; none is expected, and all the while, the warm-up goes on. 

You’d think Cas had an actual metronome that he timed his swats by, because they come down on Sam’s vulnerable backside with timing so precise Big Ben would be jealous.  It’s both good and bad, in that it allows Sam to brace himself, insofar as such a thing is possible, but it also means he can’t help tensing slightly, which makes the swats worse rather than better.  Just as the drunk driver, muscles loose and relaxed, is less likely to be grievously injured by the accident that he causes than the hapless and sober victims of his recklessness are, a spanking hurts a good deal less on relaxed flesh than tensed.  Sadly, that doesn’t make it any easier to keep it relaxed when someone’s whaling away at it.

It's far from the worst pain he’s ever experienced, but there’s something about the vulnerability of it all—stretched naked across the thighs of his fully clothed husband, one of the most private portions of his anatomy offered up for a chastisement so age-old, so primitive, that it relies (at least in part) on the application of physical pain—it somehow makes the pain sink deeper, exponentially increasing the emotional impact of the physical sensations.  All that—and this is still just the warm up.

Sam takes a deep breath and settles in for the long haul.


	5. Paying the Pi(e)per

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam settles up. Castiel excels at strategy.

There are few things in this world that Castiel appreciates more than his husband’s shapely, muscular backside.  And, yes, there’s an argument to be made that it would’ve been preferable to spend this evening, post-gala, availing himself of the willing, tight channel between those glorious globes.  Certainly, had Sam (and Dean, because Cas has certainly not forgotten Dean’s undoubted, albeit still undetermined role in this particular ill-considered field trip) actually managed to toe the line this evening, that’s where things would have ended up.  Sam likely wouldn’t have made it further than the kitchen before Cas stripped him of those immaculately tailored dress pants and bent him over the counter for an entirely different form of attention than that which he finds himself on the receiving end of now.

Indeed, that would have been lovely, and on some level Cas does mourn the loss of that particular opportunity.  There will be none of that tonight; while Michael’s philosophy allows for some intermingling of the two in the way in which he deals with Dean, Castiel does not mix discipline and pleasure.  That sort of thing wouldn’t lend itself well to Sam’s particular needs, and while others who don’t understand the lifestyle might not believe it, Sam’s needs always have and always will top the list of Castiel’s priorities.  That being the case, Castiel does not believe in following up a punishment with amorous activities, and even if he did, it’s creeping toward two in the morning and Cas does have a depressingly early conference call tomorrow.  No, there will be no availing himself of the prettily pinkening bottom currently spread over his knees, but really, Cas doesn’t mind.

Truthfully, he gets nearly as much enjoyment out of the current activities as he would out of the other.  That being the case, one might be forgiven for thinking that Castiel was pleased at the opportunity to take Sam to task—but they wouldn’t entirely be correct.  He dislikes the necessity of punishing Sam, far preferring the many opportunities they find for what Sam charmingly refers to as “funishment.”  The right saucy look and sassy comment have been known to find Sam in precisely this position—but in those cases, they both know he’s there entirely because he wants to be, and they both can enjoy the experience without the weight of disappointment, unmet expectations, and real correction between them.  This is not that; this is a true punishment, pure and simple.  Sam was given instructions, he deliberately and knowingly disobeyed them, and in doing so incurred a debt that can only be paid in the whimpers, yelps, and scarlet skin of a bottom well-spanked.  And that—that is the part that Castiel _does_ enjoy, regardless of the precipitating events that brought them here. 

Sam has been known to accuse him of sadism now and again.  It’s not a description that Castiel takes issue with.  And while objectively he knows that this is not an activity that the majority of the (boring, vanilla) world generally thinks of as enjoyable, Cas finds it hard to imagine how anyone could _not_ enjoy the veritable feast for the senses laid out before him.

If truth be known, while Castiel dislikes the need to punish Sam, there is something solid and reassuring about doing so—for Sam, certainly, but also for himself.  It’s a recalibration, an affirmation of their choices, their partnership, and the natural order of their relationship.  It reassures Sam that Castiel is not only in charge, but worthy of that mantle; that he can be trusted to mete out reasonable, thoughtful, loving discipline, to shepherd Sam back into line when he’s having a hard time getting there himself.  And it reassures Castiel himself; that Sam does trust him, enough to surrender both control and bodily autonomy to him.  That his charge is safe under the shelter of his wings, and just as in need of the structure and support that Castiel provides as Castiel needs to provide it.

In that same vein, while there is security to the punishment proper, what Castiel really likes the most, what truly recharges him is this; the warm-up.  The moments when bare hand connects with bare ass, when the only sounds in the room are flesh meeting flesh and the little gasps and exhalations that Sam increasingly can’t suppress.  He can take a good deal more than this—and will, presently—but the psychological impact of the warm up always seems to strike him particularly strongly (pun only moderately intended).  Granted, the fact that Cas tends to have Sam hold onto whatever implement will ultimately be used on him likely contributes to this; he’s found there is benefit to having Sam meditate on the punishment he is presently to receive while the means of correction is readily available to his eyes and touch.

If asked, Castiel would find it difficult to verbalize precisely how he knows when the warm up is over and it’s time to move on.  Really, it’s a combination of factors.  A particular, uniform shade of pink achieved across the entire target area, a certain sharper tone to Sam’s little inhalations, and the very beginnings of something that will presently become squirming, in addition to a sort of… _je ne sais quoi._ Castiel simply knows, just as he knows on the (reasonably rare) occasions when Sam is in need of a maintenance spanking, or knows when the punishment proper has achieved what it needs to and will become overkill if pushed further.

For now, though, there is work yet to be done, and Castiel sets about doing it with aplomb.  The flat, calloused surface of his right hand rises and falls with steady, predictable rhythm, varying not at all in either speed or force.  This is a skill he has perfected with long practice, and Cas would be lying if he said he didn’t take some small measure of pride in it.  The crack of hand against bottom sounds crisply, the carpeting thick enough to absorb just enough of the sound that there is no echo.  This suits Castiel; he prefers for each smack to be distinct, the loud report nearly as much a chastisement as the pain that accompanies it.  The thing about a spanking is that, properly accomplished, it is not merely about pain.  The humiliation aspect—and the ritual itself—are just as critical as the physical sensations.

Castiel excels at all three.

“Nearly there,” he tells Sam, his voice calm and assured, something solid for Sam to grab ahold of.  “This lovely bottom has almost achieved the proper blush,” Cas watches expectantly and is not disappointed when he sees the top of Sam’s ears, not quite concealed by his thick hair, redden a bit in response to his words, “but I would be remiss if I did not attend to other areas the hairbrush will presently be visiting.”  That being said, he shifts slightly, lifting one knee just enough to tip Sam’s bottom forward a little, more fully exposing the undercurve and the delicious apex of ass and thighs.  As promised, he sets about attending fully to these tender areas, aware but not particularly bothered by the increasing sting in his no doubt bright red palm.  While its attentions are spread across the full surface of Sam’s backside, its smaller surface gets the full brunt of each strike.  Castiel doesn’t mind.  Although his palm is likely far less calloused than Michael’s (Dean requires a good deal more maintenance than Sam ever has), it’s more than up to this task when called to serve.  Indeed, the aforementioned “funishments” tend to involve bare hand and bare backside (Castiel is loath to surrender any part of a spanking to implements except when required by actual disciplinary needs; he enjoys the smack of hand on butt far too much), which helps keep him in shape even when Sam goes weeks without earning himself a true correction.

Satisfied with the color and warmth radiating from Sam’s sit-spots, Cas moves onward to his thighs, swats falling steadily about halfway to his knees.  The hairbrush won’t be wandering that far, but Cas indulges himself nevertheless.  By all rights, he really ought to be in bed by now.  Would be, likely, but for Sam’s ill behavior.  They could’ve had a steamy, desperate quickie over the kitchen counter and been halfway to dreamland by now.  Given that that’s off the table, it doesn’t seem too much to ask that Cas takes a moment to enjoy the warmth and color of a soundly swatted thigh or two.  And what’s more is this; with seven years of marriage between them and countless gallons of water under the bridge, Castiel can see just from the slight shift in Sam’s shoulders that he knows what Cas is about.  Sam knows perfectly well that Castiel is not nearly irate enough to really go to work on Sam’s thighs with the brush (something that requires an infraction of rather greater severity than this one).  He knows that this little field trip further down has more to do with how much Castiel enjoys Sam’s little sounds than with warming his thighs up for actual punishment.  No, he’s well aware that this is just a little self-indulgence on Castiel’s part.

Still, Sam makes no objection.  The reason for this is twofold (and here again, with the knowing one another well enough that language is not required, because Castiel knows exactly why he’s biting his tongue).  First, he’s in no position to be making demands or criticisms.  Second, if by some small chance he were wrong, Castiel would as a matter of course spend extra time on his thighs with said hairbrush to really ensure the message—and just exactly who is in charge—sank in.  Sam is far too intelligent (and, unlike his brother, has far too well-developed a sense of self-preservation) to run that particular risk.

Castiel doesn’t spend overmuch time down Sam’s thighs, pausing to appreciate a barely-stifled squeak he earns before quickly bringing his attentions back up where they will do the most good.  He takes a moment to let his gaze wander across the entirety of his target area, noting with a mingling of pride, enjoyment, and a hint of regret (he does _so_ enjoy this part) that he’s achieved the precise color—and, from further up, sounds—he looks for in a warm-up.  There’s a slight shift in the air, indefinable but impossible to miss.  Sam knows as well as Cas does that it’s time to move on.

Sure enough, as Cas opens his mouth to request that Sam hand over the hairbrush, the gorgeous, clever, delightfully compliant man stretched across his lap extends a hand backward, pre-emptively obeying an order that Cas had yet to give.  A quiet smile flits across Castiel’s face.  He takes the hairbrush with his stinging right hand, and reaches the other over to sift gently through Sam’s hair in wordless praise and affection.  “Always my good boy, even in the wake of an error,” he murmurs fondly.  Not for the first time, he takes a moment to marvel that somehow, he landed the remarkable, brilliant, beautiful, mostly well-behaved Sam, and to be additionally grateful that Michael, who met the Winchesters first, entirely bypassed the treasure that is Samuel Winchester in favor of his far more infuriating brother. 

Now, it’s not that Castiel has no affection for his brother-in-law—he has a great deal.  It’s just that he finds it hard to imagine that anyone would choose to deal with the catastrophe that is Dean’s tornadic journey through the world when they had the option of Sam’s still, deep waters.

That being said, Castiel really does love Dean.  Wants to wring his neck at least 62% of the time, on average (shush, he has an excellent mind for math), but even so.  Cas does not forget that it’s largely down to Dean that Sam is alive, well, and Stanford-educated, given the distinct gaps in parenting the brothers Winchester experienced.  Dean has earned the right to be a bit of a walking cataclysm, given how quickly he had to grow up and how well he singlehandedly raised Sam.  Ultimately, there’s a kind of understanding between Castiel and Dean, a wordless agreement that either of them would raze the entire world to save Sam.  Would move heaven and earth to provide for his needs.  Perhaps the only person on the planet more single-mindedly devoted to Sam than Castiel is Dean.  Dean was brother, best friend, mother and father to Sam, somehow (Castiel has never asked, but he can hazard a few guesses) always providing for him when Dean was little more than a child himself.  It’s one of the many reasons that Sam is so susceptible to Dean’s shenanigans.  How do you say no to a little mischief from the man who’s the sole reason you didn’t end up dead or lost in the wilds of the foster system?  Sam has never known how to tell Dean “no” any more than Dean has ever told him the same. 

Indeed, a carefully-placed word from Dean early on, and Sam likely would’ve turned his back on Castiel and never looked back.  Castiel is—and was, at the time—acutely aware of that.  And there’s no question that Dean wanted to, initially.  If asked, he would have insisted (and probably still would, come to think of it) that nobody was good enough for Sammy.  But even so; instead of neatly and casually putting a stop to things, he watched with uncharacteristic quiet attention, bright green eyes intent on how Castiel and Sam interacted, how Castiel looked at Sam.  And then, one night, scarcely three months after Cas had taken Sam out for their first real date, at a gala much like tonight’s, Cas had glanced up from a shared moment of intimacy with Sam to find Dean’s sharp, intent gaze upon him.  Dean had nodded, just slightly, and just once.  Approval given, just like that.  And Castiel knew.  The single biggest roadblock he would face in his need to have Sam as his own had just neatly removed itself from his path.  When the time came to break out the ring he’d had tucked in a drawer since shortly after his third meeting with Sam, and long before their first date (yes, Cas had known that soon and been that certain), Dean would not stand in the way. 

So, yes.  As infuriating as Dean can be, he and Castiel share the same ultimate priority—Sam’s needs and well-being.  They often differ in their idea of what that means, however, which not infrequently leads to moments like this one, in which the all-too-persuadable younger Winchester brother must pay the piper, generally in yelps and whimpers, for going along with Dean’s latest scheme.

Speaking of which—Castiel understands why Sam has not copped to Dean’s role in his walkabout, whatever that role may have been.  There is a code of silence between the brothers that no punishment, no imprecation, no cajoling or demanding or instructing can penetrate.  The brothers Winchester do _not_ rat on one another.  Michael and Cas learned this years ago, and generally make no real attempt to force it.  With that in mind, if Castiel intends to find out what really happened tonight (and oh, he does), a direct approach will do no good.  He must instead turn to more underhanded methods.

In general, trying to manipulate lawyers is unwise.  Their bread and butter is nuance, precise verbiage, and the narrow grey area between truth and lies.  Sam demonstrated this earlier, when his noncommittal language neatly skirted around his unauthorized field trip without either giving it away or lying to Cas directly.  And indeed, Cas is no lawyer.  He certainly doesn’t have the kind of gift for strategic wording that has served Sam so well professionally.  What he does have on his side is how intimately he knows his husband, and what a strong sense of justice Sam has.  The same sense of justice which wouldn’t long permit him to help ridiculously wealthy scofflaws escape the consequences of their actions will leave him with a bitter taste in his mouth at the idea of being punished while Dean escapes all responsibility.  No doubt it grates on his nerves even now; Cas could sense earlier that more was bothering Sam than simply being punished for something that turned out well.  He can deduce what injustice must be rankling him.  Castiel simply needs to exploit that particular sense of injustice, and he’s bound to get the whole story sooner than later.

Wrapping his fingers more securely around the solid handle of the hairbrush, Cas settles his left hand on Sam’s waist, cinching him in a little tighter.  Sam does try to be well-behaved, but his best efforts are sometimes complicated by involuntary squirming.  Castiel intends this spanking to be squirm-inducing, and he can’t have Sam inadvertently spilling off his lap onto the floor.  The only bruises his gorgeous body should be sporting come tomorrow are those minor ones the hairbrush may impart.

And speaking of the hairbrush, Castiel weighs it in his hand, taking a moment to examine it closely, ensuring that there are no cracks or splinters in it that might do unintended forms of harm to Sam.  It was in perfect condition the last time it was called to this use, but it never hurts to be certain.  As it happens, it’s still as pristine as ever, and without further delay, Cas sets about his task.

There is a certain satisfaction (well; for Castiel, almost certainly not for Sam) in the first crack of wood on skin, in the way its target whitens and then fills in a deeper pink than the skin around it.  Soon enough, the sound of those cracks fills the room, one after another.  Castiel gets a full round in, covering Sam’s backside from the fullest part down to the tips of his thighs, then proceeds halfway through the second round, ensuring that the sting is just starting to really set in before he starts to speak.

“You know,” he says, neither pausing nor varying the strokes of the hairbrush, “I really had hoped to have quite a different post-gala evening.  Such plans I had for you and I.  It’s quite a shame I was called to attend to poor behavior rather than given the opportunity to peel you out of that lovely tuxedo, one piece at a time.  I honestly can’t believe I’m saying this, but,” he does pause now, the hairbrush hesitating as if he is so incredulous over what he’s about to say that he’s briefly forgotten the punishment he’s delivering, “but I find myself jealous of Michael, who finds himself in the enviable position of having a partner whose behavior was exemplary this evening.”  The hairbrush continues to fall, and Castiel trails off as if that’s all he has to say.  He lets Sam stew in that untruth for some time, starting to ramp up both the force and the speed of the paddling he’s delivering.  He must get Sam to a point at which he begins to lose control, then go in for the killing blow.

And indeed, Sam’s not there yet, but he’s on the way.  Each crack of wood on flesh earns its own discreet little sound now, a gasp or a grunt or a yip.  The muscles of Sam’s backside are flexing and releasing in a futile attempt to shake off some of the sting.  It’s no use; even if it were effective, Castiel is working far too quickly to replace and increase that sting for Sam to dispel it any.  “Really,” Castiel says, listening carefully to the sounds of Sam’s breathing over and through the echoing of the spanking itself, “you tend to spoil me.  I’m so used to your excellent behavior that it would never have occurred to me that you might deliberately disobey me purely based on your own _boredom._ And particularly not on such an important night.  I must say, however well it turned out, I’m deeply disappointed in you, Samuel.”

To nobody’s surprise, this is what starts to break Sam down.  He can handle virtually anything; has gritted his teeth through the kind of strapping that would have undone Castiel, had he been forced to bear it—but the idea of Cas being disappointed in him?  _That_ is devastating in a way no physical pain could be.

Cas lets that sink in for a bit, continuing his work with the brush, smack after crisp smack falling on the now deep, dark pink flesh of Sam’s ass.  He can tell the moment when the tears that have likely been building for some time start to fall, instantly divines the shift in Sam’s breathing as it becomes shaky and thick.  “C—Cas, I’m sorry,” Sam whimpers, “I di— _ow,_ I didn’t mean t—fuck, _ouch,”_

“Didn’t mean to what?  To disobey my direct orders?  To risk disaster on a night on which it could’ve had serious professional repercussions for not only myself but for Michael as well?  Even Dean grasped the importance of tonight and modified his generally troublesome behavior accordingly.”  His words at this point are interspersed with more robust yelps and pleas from Sam, but Cas ignores them entirely, simply continues speaking over both Sam and the crack of his brush.  Or at least, he appears to be ignoring them entirely.  In fact, he’s listening very closely indeed, waiting for the moment in which the combination of pain, shame, and injustice breaks through Sam’s determination to uphold his code of silence.   “I would never have believed it, that I would be the one delivering a well-deserved punishment while Michael and Dean no doubt enjoy the sort of evening I had planned for us, and yet here we are, and I am faced with the prospect of putting you to bed with a red face and a redder bottom, and I—”

“—Dean’s _fault,”_ garbles Sam, between sobs. 

The corners of Castiel’s lips quirk upward just slightly, and he brings the hairbrush down _hard_ on the precise seam of Sam’s ass and thighs, once on either side, pretending as if he heard nothing.  “—will have to face Michael in the morning, and inform him that while Dean was a perfect gentleman, _my_ husband made the decision to—”

“—was all Dean’s _idea_ and it’s not _fair,”_ Sam wails, a great deal more clearly.  _There we are._ Cas pauses the hairbrush, lips twitching as Sam freezes solid, suddenly realizing what he’s just let slip. Castiel’s smile widens, settling comfortably onto his face. 

“Pardon me?” Cas says, enough irony in his voice that if Sam still possesses the mental faculties to read it, he may well guess that this does not come as a shock to Castiel.

“I—” Sam starts, then pauses, clearly trying to decide whether there’s still any plausible deniability to be had.  Castiel disabuses him of that very quickly.

“Oh, no, Samuel.  You may consider that charming code of silence well and truly broken.  That ship has sailed.  I strongly advise you not to attempt to bring it back in to harbor, unless you feel the hairbrush did not send a strong enough message yet.  We can always start from the beginning and come back to this.”

That gets Sam talking, just as Cas knew it would.  The saga tumbles out in short order, the details Castiel knew coming together with those he did not to draw a complete picture.  Dean’s hunger (what _was_ Michael thinking, bringing him to the gala without feeding him at least half a dozen cheeseburgers in advance?), the enticing smell of blueberry pie wafting in from the kitchens, the subsequent emotional blackmail—Dean truly is a master of it, and one of these days Castiel, with Michael’s permission, will have his own _discussion_ with Dean about that particular dirty tactic—the initial return, scot free, and finally, the discovery that Sam had lost his shoe.

They have gotten through the most somber parts of this punishment, such that Castiel doesn’t feel it inappropriate to laugh immoderately at this piece of the puzzle.  Poor Sam, found out courtesy of his oddly shaped arch.  It’s hard not to feel a bit of sympathy.

“Mmm,” hums Cas when he’s calmed a bit, “oh, Sam.  Stymied by your unusual foot shape.  A throwback to years gone by.”  Sam sniffles miserably, choosing—probably wisely—not to say whatever no doubt popped into his mind in response.  “Very well,” Cas says, “thank you for your honesty, Sam.  I retract all statements about Dean’s exemplary behavior.  You know my thoughts on you surrendering to his wheedling already.  I see no need to revisit that particular topic.  Just one more thing, then,” he murmurs, reaching out to slide his phone off the back of the couch, where he’d placed it in anticipation of the moment when he got the final pieces of the puzzle out of Sam.  Unlocking it with his left thumb, he taps his favorite contacts and pulls up Michael, setting back to work with the hairbrush as the phone rings.  Michael will no doubt have it on do not disturb, but a second call immediately after the first will ring through regardless.  Castiel does not make a habit of calling late at night for trivial matters.  Michael will answer the phone.

It only takes a few moments for Sam’s whimpers and pleas to start up again in concert with the smack of brush against backside.  Despite the brief break, the sting must be nearly unbearable.  Sam’s left hand grips his right wrist in front of him, forcing himself not to reach back to attempt to shield the target area—nearly always such a good boy, even when it’s difficult.

Sure enough, the phone rings through to voicemail, and Cas hangs up, immediately calling again.  It rings for quite some time, almost long enough to go through to voicemail a second time before the click indicating that it has been picked up sounds.

“Little busy, Cas,” Michael says, his rapid breathing making it quite clear just exactly what sort of activities were keeping him busy.  “What’s the emergency?”

“Sam,” Cas says, switching the phone to speaker, ensuring that Michael will hear the telltale sounds of hairbrush and flesh, “tell Michael what you just told me.”

Sam knows better than to refuse.  Castiel would simply tell the story for him, and then make him even sorrier for his crimes.  No—haltingly, and with frequent pauses for more yelps and whimpers when the brush strikes particularly sensitive spots, the full story spills out yet again.  Michael is reasonably quiet throughout, punctuating the tale with noncommittal-sounding ‘yeses’ and ‘hmms’ and ‘oh reallys.’  When Sam finally wraps up the tale, Cas stops the fall of the brush, setting it carefully on the back of the couch and transferring the phone to his right hand so that he can rub Sam’s back soothingly with his left.  As Sam quiets, Cas imparts the remainder of the story—Chuck’s subsequent request to have dinner with Cas and Sam.  Michael laughs quietly, and Cas doesn’t have to see his elder brother to know he is shaking his head in incredulous amusement.  Castiel quite understands—for once a Winchester Field Trip resulted in victory and not disaster?  Who would’ve guessed it?

“Well, I’m thrilled that it worked out so well,” Michael tells them both.  “And thank you for telling me.  I’ll be sure to deal with my end of things,” he finishes up neutrally, no doubt deliberately refraining from letting Dean know that the jig is up.  “If that’s all, I was a bit occupied when you called.  Please take good care of Sam, and we’ll plan on seeing you both tomorrow evening at mother’s?”

Castiel smirks slightly.  Yes, Sam is quite well taken care of.  “Yes, we’ll see you then.  Goodnight, Michael.”

“Night, Cas.”

Castiel hangs up the phone, setting it once more on the back of the couch, continuing to run his hand gently up and down Sam’s back.  The man in question’s sobs have dwindled to shaky breathing, although he’s likely still leaking tears.  “Thank you for your honesty, Sam,” Cas says seriously, “I know that was difficult for you.  You were right, however—it really _wasn’t_ fair for you to take the fall alone for something that you were not the architect of.  You’ve paid your debt, it’s only fair that Dean pays his as well.”

Sam undoubtedly has a few choice thoughts about this—most likely related to what _Dean_ will have to say about it—but he’s wise enough to keep his own counsel.  “Yes, Sir,” he says, just a little shakily.

“Now, then,” Cas says, shaking out his right hand for a moment before bringing it down sharply on Sam’s thighs, a solid five times each.  “I need hardly say that further field trips of this kind will be dealt with quite as harshly as this one, regardless of their outcome—but consider yourself forgiven, Sam.  Your debt is paid.  Let it go, sweetheart.”

Sam is shuddering with renewed tears, but these are the silent kind, the healing kind.  Recognizing that he’s not ready to stand up yet, Cas settles his hand once more on that flaming red bottom, taking a moment to appreciate the heat radiating off of it before he starts to rub just a bit of the sting out.  “Thank you, Sir,” Sam says after a few moments to pull himself together.  His voice is shaky, but the weight of dread and guilt has fallen away from it, his slate wiped clean with the completion of the spanking.  Even Castiel feels lighter, freer.  The world at large might not understand their lifestyle, but for those whom it suits, there’s nothing quite like a good spanking to impart a sense of rightness with the world.

They sit like that for a long few moments, Sam getting himself back under control, Cas simply waiting for him to be ready to get up, no desire whatsoever to rush his beloved.

When Sam finally shifts a little, as if realizing for the first time that his muscles have gone stiff after so long in the same position, Cas slips his left hand out of Sam’s hair, where it has been carding gently, and reaches down to help him rise to his feet.  Cas follows, standing and reaching up to gather his massive husband in, tucking that shaggy head down against his shoulder exactly as if Sam were a small child in need of comfort.  Sam positively melts into him, and Cas takes a moment to savor this, his husband, chastened, forgiven, and well-loved.  In a few moments, he will take Sam’s hand and lead him, unresisting, to bed, where he will curl up in Castiel’s arms, docile as a newborn kitten. 

Despite what he told Sam earlier, there are far worse ways to end an evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Addendum, 4/3/18: Originally, I had this work marked as 7 chapters. There were intended to be two more after this one. For personal reasons, I'm putting the remainder of this particular story indefinitely on hold, possibly permanently. I've changed the chapter count to reflect that this is the final chapter, but feel free to subscribe anyway if you want a notification on the (slim) chance that someday I do decide to finish off what I had planned for it. I'm so sorry to those of you who were eagerly awaiting the conclusion of this saga, and I hope Sam's comeuppance was enough to at least mostly satisfy. Thanks for reading.
> 
> [Please note that this *DOES NOT MEAN* any of my other works should be considered abandoned]


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